


A mali estremi, estremi rimedi

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: World War Z (2013), World War Z - Max Brooks
Genre: Adult Content, Besides Favino's character deserves all the love in this universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Disasters, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, M/M, No one had written about the W.H.O Doctors and that frustrated me, POV Male Character, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2369408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The irony was he'd planned to tell her in Rome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own World War Z in any media type, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: After a few re-watches I realized I just couldn't leave the W.H.O Doctor's at the medical research facility alone. None of the doctors have names, so in the interest of actually making them 'full-fledged' human beings, I decided to use the first names of the actual actors. This story is told in the point of view of the head W.H.O Doctor/Scientist/Person that joined Gerry Lane and Segen in reaching B-wing in order to formulate a cure. (I also took the liberty of naming Favino's character's son.) *I was really taken by the scene near the end when Pierfrancesco Favino's character and Moritz Bleibtreu's character embraced when Gerry's camouflage cure succeeded. The scene seemed so effortless and real that I couldn't help myself by try to tap into why.
> 
> Warnings: This story is meant to fit pre-canon, during canon, and after the credits rolled. *Contains: movie spoilers, angst, adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, eventual slash.

The irony was he'd planned to tell her in Rome. Tell her that he knew about all the lies, the cheating and the affair. That he knew about the lover in Prague. That he knew about the little nest egg she'd started squirreling away in a Swiss bank account the year their son was born.

_That he knew._

_All of it._

He knew it sounded cruel. And maybe it was. But he didn't see it that way. Not with his motivations anyway. He could never be as cold hearted as her. Not even if he wanted to. They'd been planning the trip for over a year, back before the tapestry of lies and deceits had started unraveling around him. Back before he'd had even so much as a hint that his marriage – in spirit, if not in name – was effectively over.

For him it had been a visit home, a chance to unwind and breathe that singular Roman air. A chance to show his son the place of his birth, to have breakfast in the family villa built into the cliffs overlooking the sea in Sorrento, to show his son the secret coves he'd discovered as a child. To have his wife and son at his side as he took a much needed vacation, his first since his promotion three years ago.

Only she'd gone and ruined that.

_Slowly._

_Methodically._

_And deliberately._

He'd seen it as the last family vacation his son would ever have – with the three of them together - and wanted to make it memorable. In spite of the hurt he wanted to create something that would last. Something his son could look back on with a smile rather than tears and frustration.

_A happy time._

He planned to tell her at the end of the trip. Somewhere public, somewhere she couldn't make a scene. Maybe a nice restaurant or one those fashion boutiques by the waterfront she was so fond of, while Susanna – their nanny - took Stefan to the park.

Somewhere she'd be forced to behave, to keep that glacial, simpering smile plastered across her face, pretending that everything was fine as he handed her the papers. She'd always cared so much about appearances, about society and the opinions of others that he knew he'd be safe from the fall out.

_Too bad she'd never taken his into account._

He couldn't, in good conscience, deny that watching her force down the urge to rage and scream would have been satisfying. He wasn't without faults of his own, after all. But mostly, he just wanted it over. _Done_.

He'd planned to make it easy – a clean break. He was going to let her have the house, the brand new car he'd bought her last Christmas when he figured they still stood a chance at making things work - even the time share in the South of France.

On top of it, he was only going to fight for partial custody – with this son spending equal time between them. His lawyer had suggested seeking full custody, reminding him that with his connections and the evidence of Claire's affair, it would be all too easy; but he'd refused.

With his job that wasn't fair.

Not to Stefan.

Not to any of them.

Besides, if his wife had one redeeming quality, it was the deep, abiding love she had for their son. She might have been an awful wife and a terrible human being, but for all that, she was at heart a great mother.

And at the end of the day, fantasies of revenge aside, the level of cruelty necessary to strip mother from son was simply not in his nature.

* * *

The English have a saying for best laid plans.

So do the Italians.

It is said God openly mocks them.


	2. Chapter 2

They say India was a black hole.

If it was, Rome was worse.

He barely made it out of the city alive.

* * *

The only reason he got as far as he did before the Carabinieri caught up with him – holed up in a back alley behind a dumpster with nothing more than a bloody two-by-four and the clothes on his back - was because of Susanna.

She'd picked him up, dragging him away from the writhing pile his son and wife had disappeared under, pinching and slapping at his face when he reeled, sending them pitching dangerously down a narrow incline, a grassy knoll under a bridge and-

It'd happened so fast.

There'd been no time.

No time to run.

No time to hide.

No time to-

They'd been walking down one of the more affluent streets. Stefan had been in his arms, limp and ready for his afternoon nap. He'd been rocking from side to side, even-keeled and content, killing time as his son snuggled into the curve of his shoulder. Claire had been window shopping. Or at least that was what she'd called popping in and out of every other shop along the strip - high heels _click-clacking_ sharply - burbling and overall rather pleased with herself as she emerged with yet another flashy little bag and a triumphant expression.

"Just a few more minutes," she promised, kissing him on the cheek in a whirl of sweet smelling perfume and airy chiffon, the mound of bags at his feet only growing in size with every passing moment.

But he'd barely batted an eye.

By Claire's standards she was only just getting started.

Susanna had just sighed, long-suffering and bored, fiddling with the stroller from her perch on the park bench as she looked off towards the city center, steel-grey curls rippling in the brisk, sea-borne breeze.

He noticed the smoke the same moment the screaming started.

* * *

He lost Susanna twenty minutes later to a mob that came screaming down a side street.

Twelve seconds. That was all it took.

All it took to erase over a million years of evolution.

To turn a sweet, mild-tempered old lady into an animal - a predator – a _thing._

It had twisted her, twisted all of them, turning human features animalistic and drawn, reducing them to basic drives and instincts. But it was more than that, it was driven - _targeted_. But there hadn't been anytime, no time to stop, observe, learn - _understand_.

All he could do was run.

He managed to pull them into an abandoned car park, mossy cobblestones littered with briefcases and shoes - like whoever had been wearing them had run right out of them. But by then she was already twitching, fingers clenching, spasming and screeching as the virus – because it _had_ to be a virus – took hold.

There'd been nothing he could do.

_Nothing._

* * *

_Oh god, Stefan._

_His boy._

_He was gone._

_Gone like his mother._

_Gone like-_

* * *

She chased after him with the _snap-snap_ of ivory-coated veneers, hands outstretched and bloody. She was wearing the watch they'd gotten her last Christmas. The one Stefan had been fascinated with from the start. Holding it solemnly in his pudgy hands from his seat on the soft carpet, as careful and delicate as any four year old could be as he watched the diamonds catch the light. Susanna had laughed, telling him that each one was a captured star. And that every time one of them twinkled, that meant that somewhere, a wish was coming true.

She'd cried the day they'd given her that watch. Sobbing into trembling hands, telling them – between happy tears and overwhelmed flappings of her wrist – that it was the best thing she'd ever owned.

* * *

He remembered dodged around a pillar, tripping and stumbling as he slammed into a parked car, a railing, nearly falling over a lone Stiletto heel. He pelted through the cause-way, lost, panicking, the screams of the undead ringing in his ears like an unearthly chorus, amplified by the acoustics in the underground garage.

He exploded out the nearest door – the one labelled _uscita_ \- and into a narrow alleyway.

There was a fire escape to his left, rickety and sharp enough that it practically screamed _tetanus_ , but he threw himself at it regardless. Sweaty hands swiping at the rungs as he took the raised ladder with a rebounding leap, pulling himself up as the thing that'd once been his son's caretaker, a close friend, slammed through the door behind him, growling.

The sound of her teeth grazing across exposed metal – only millimeters shy of where his ankle had been a second ago - made his teeth ache in sympathy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference: The Carabinieri is the gendarmerie and military police of Italy. Duties include joint cooperation in many UN, NATO and EU operations.
> 
> Translation:"Uscita" – is the Italian word for 'exit.'


	3. Chapter 3

He managed to get a call through to the office in Cardiff before the lines went down. He'd been lucky. Lucky that the fire escape had led to the roof. Lucky there'd been a pile of construction equipment stacked by the locked hatch that led back down into the building. Lucky that the two-by-four he'd swung had connected with the side of Susanna's head as she snarled, clutching and snapping at the ledge as she tried to force unruly joints and stiffening sinews to clear the rest of the ladder. Lucky the distance between his roof and the next had been easily jumped, lucky that he was flagged down three buildings later by a man with a butcher's knife and a bloody apron.

"Peter!"

He didn't recognise his voice as he yelled into the receiver, practically able to feel his battery draining – percent by percent - as he stuck a finger in his free ear, trying vainly to hear through the static as the sound of distant explosions rolled. A swan song to history as Rome tore itself apart around him.

"It isn't the blood!"

There was a crackle, the sound of heavy breathing, a pause, then-

"What the sodding hell…Pierre? Jesus Christ! Is that you?"

"It's not the blood," he yelled again, flinching back as an explosion rocked the building next to him. "That's not how it spreads, at least not directly. Not by ingestion. It's blood to blood contact or a direct attack. Tell Dr. Spellman to focus on–"

The rest of whatever he said was lost as the butcher, a large man who was more than three times his size, paced around the deli counter, knife gleaming in the low light as the power flickered. Everyone was speaking rapid fire Italian – too fast for his second generation understanding to pick up in full – as the people – customers – milled around, shoring up the barricade that blocked off the front entryway from the main street.

He took a breath, unsteady and shallow. "How bad?" he asked, knowing that Peter's penchant for voicing hard truths would serve him well. He needed the facts, not conjecture, not hope. He needed reality served cold. He needed it bitter, raw and unappetizing so he could better pick out its flaws.

"Bad," Peter returned, toneless as static hissed, low but steady in the very echoes of the connection. "We are waiting on the samples, it hasn't spread far here yet, but-"

"Don't let anyone leave," he interrupted, speaking into his open palm as he covered the receiver with his hand, trying vainly to muffle the sound as a small child started wailing in its mother's arms – safely tucked away behind the display counter. "They're drawn by sound.  _Stimulus._  It doesn't take much. Bullets only slow them down. You can't risk-"

"Pierre? Jesus, what the hell is happening over there? Tell me you're not still in Rome? The embassy told us you'd made the last flight before they were overrun? Where are you? It's been all over the telly, the military there is pulling back. They've lost containment. The Pope-"

He blinked, staring blankly at the opposing wall.

He looked at the clock and realized almost thirteen hours had passed.

_How?_

A tension headache throbbed between his temples, a sound accompaniment to the tinny ringing in his ears, constant and grating. His body ached, skin littered with cuts and bruises, jumper and hair prickling with glass shards and loose gravel.

_He was losing time._

"No one leaves," he repeated, rasping the vowels, clinging to the point doggedly. "We are going to need everyone on this. Is Ruth in yet? Mori?"

"Yes, yes, they're fine, they're here. They have a theory but we're still waiting on those blasted samples. There is a military unit en-route, we've locked and shuttered the front gates. We're ready."

He gnawed on the blunt of his fist, holding himself back. His head tipped back, thunking hard against the window pane as the cover of his cellphone creaked dangerously. Someone was tugging at his elbow, trying to get him to move, shoving him out of the way as they grabbed at one the chairs set against the wall behind him, dragging it across the tile to get in the way of the people trying to secure a length of chain around the doors.

He wanted to scream.

_No you aren't._

_No one was._

_No one ever could be._

"Pierre, no- _listen_ , where are you?"

He shook his head, "forget about me. There is a key taped to the underside of the window ledge by the heater. Take it and unlock the cabinet in the corner. There's a folder in there, red, labeled: "Emergency Protocols," worst cases scenario directives."

He could practically  _hear_ his friend's hackles go up.

"I don't know what the bloody hell you're going on about, but I'm getting you out of there, right now. Stay put, Pierre, I mean it," Peter snapped, frustrated now, clearly on the move as the sound of muffled conversation rose and fell in the background.

A voice he thought could have been Mori's sounded out, questioning, but Peter just grunted out a negative. Muttering about extraction points and border restrictions, going on to have a good rant about the deplorable lack of communication that existed between different country's militaries before he managed to pull himself together enough to respond.

He grimaced, head pounding. "Don't bother. I'm not high enough in priority and I don't know how the hell anyone could get to me, anyway. You said the Italian military was pulling back," he reminded, willing the man to just drop it.

_It would be easier this way._

_Better._

"Those soggy bastards can kiss my arse for all I care," Peter returned breezily, flipping papers. "Someone is coming to get you, all four of you, if Susanna's still with you. Just stay hidden and for god's sake, keep your cell on."

He shook his head.

_It didn't matter._

_Once they were done ripping through the people trapped in the streets._

_The people running, screaming, hiding – changing._

_They'd find them._

_It was only a matter of time._

"Just me," he murmured, disassociated and calm, marveling at the way his voice refused to shake.

"I-…What?" Peter demanded. A manic sort of grin threatened to make tracks across his face as he soaked it in. The man was all shaky silence and awkward beats. Considering the circumstances, considering the fact that his arse was numb and his skin and clothes were smeared with his son's blood, it really shouldn't have amused him as much as it did.

_But then, when was human emotion ever truly logical?_

"Just me," he repeated, hiccupping, unable to tell if it was a chuckle or a sob threatening to strangle him from the inside out. "They're gone, Peter. I lost them. They took them. She didn't-I couldn't-"

He broke off when the connection hissed, reminding him all at once how thin his lifeline truly was. He was wasting time - wasting  _their_ time. It was up to them now. If anyone could solve this it was them – his team.

"I have to go," he murmured, eyes focusing for what felt like the first time in hours. Taking in the scene around him as a group of people huddled around the prone figure of an elderly man – worn leather jacket and cloth cap - clutching at his right arm.

_Heart attack._

"I have to help."

If he'd been paying attention he might have heard the hushed exclamation, the stuttering expressions of regret and sympathy hastily mumbled over the static-drowned line. As it was, the only thing he heard before the line went dead was Peter's reassurance that someone was coming, that Mori and Ruth and the director's brand new secretary were all on the line with the UN and not to worry. They'd handle everything. They'd seen him when he got back and-

"Stay safe, my friend, good  _lzzzphtz_ -"

The screen blinked –  _signal lost_ – before going dark.

He figured the man had meant 'good luck.' But knowing Peter with his east-side Cardiff brogue and general love of curse words for all occasions, it could have honestly been anything under the sun. Either way, he supposed it got the job done.

* * *

But before he shook the thoughts away, rolling up his sleeves and stowing his phone safely in his pocket – parting the crowd around the elderly man with a handful of words, checking the heart rate as his frantic daughter babbled about his medication - he couldn't help but think that it'd been good to hear the man's voice.

To be able to close his eyes and picture his life the way it should have been.

The lab.

His office.

B-wing.

Their home.

The little orchard down the street.

The farmers market every Wednesday and Saturday in the village square.

The smell of frying chips and East-Atlantic cod.

His lips twitched, wan and acrid with regret.

There was nothing quite like the comfort of familiar things.

* * *

Half an hour later, someone in search of a toilet dropped a crowbar in the back room. He froze, pausing between chest compressions as the echoes sent shockwaves rippling through the unnaturally still air.

There was a beat of silence.

A purring chirp.

A snarl.

A growl.

The sound of running feet.

And suddenly he was running again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference: As mentioned, since the W.H.O Doctors were never actually named in the movie, for easy and plot I ended up naming them after the actor’s that played them.  
> *“Pierre” is the character played by Pierfrancesco Favino (the dark-haired leader of the W.H.O Doctors and the main character of this story.)   
> *“Peter” is the character played by Peter Capaldi (the grey haired, second in command.)   
> *“Ruth” is the character played by Ruth Negga (the sole female W.H.O doctor.)   
> *“Mori” is the character played by Moritz Bleibtreu (the final W.H.O doctor, younger, who was seated next to Ruth during the scene where Gerry explains his idea for a cure).


	4. Chapter 4

They dropped him off two miles from the facility, on the very edge of the Cardiff moors. They handed him a gun he didn't know how to use and told him to fire only if it was his last resort. They told him to hurry, but not to run - to _ghost_  across the landscape, not own it.

No sudden moves.

No noise.

Stay low.

And,  _hey_ , he might just make it there alive, after all.

* * *

 

When the helicopter landed and his feet hit the ground – muted in the long grass - he stumbled, wobbly and weak with exhaustion and the long flight. It wasn't a promising start, he'd admit that. Feeling light headed, he clung to the side of the chopper for balance, trying his best to shake it off. And judging by the snickers that issued as the company readied themselves to leave, his would-be saviors were in agreement.

He shouldered the pack they'd given him and was about to push off when the head of the unit, an unnamed Captain who'd spent the majority of the flight glaring daggers at him, grabbed him by the collar.

He forced himself to still, not baulk, when the action jerked him forward. He closed his eyes, breathing out, letting the red-haired man get right into his face, all stale breath and unlit nicotine. He forced himself to take a calming breath, and then another.

They all had demons they needed to excise.

Especially now.

He wouldn't deny the man responsible for saving him, his.

When it all came down to it, he understood. He was the bureaucratic face to all the messed up priorities and paperwork. He was the reason why good men had died. Why they were here, transporting someone they didn't know with credentials they likely couldn't even begin to pronounce, and not at home with their families - safe.

He could be the foil the man needed for his anger.

_He could take it._

_He deserved it._

_For living._

_For surviving when so many others had not._

"You'd better be worth it," the Captain snarled, dirty fist curling around his bloody collar, keeping him close as bright blue eyes bored unflinchingly into his. "I lost half my unit pulling you out of that shit hole."

"Why?" he croaked, clearing his throat, rusty and soft as he put to voice what had been bugging him ever since he'd heard the sound of regulation combats grating across worn cobblestone. It had all happened in a rush - he'd been resting, catching his breath, trying to stay ahead of the worst of the mobs when he heard hushed, accented English echoing down the street. There had been the beep-beep of a GPS before his name had sounded out – not ten meters from where he'd been hiding, soaking wet and crouched behind a dumpster.

"Why did you even come in the first place?"

"You were given priority status," the Captain replied, tone softening, if only slightly as the winded incomprehension he was feeling must have shown on his face. "None of your superiors made it. Right now you are the highest ranking member in your organization, and our best chance."

"To put it simply, Doctor, the world needs you," the man added, giving him a quick once over before snatching the Beretta hanging limply in his free hand. "Now more than ever."

But instead of changing his mind, the solider reached down and unsnapped his thigh holster. He couldn't help but watch, strangely fascinated by the  _click-click-pop_ and the whip-lash of black vinyl as it skimmed off the Captain's pant leg and into the open air.

He forgot to protest. Forgot to force the words past his lips when the man moved him bodily, kneeling in front of him as he fastened it around his own leg. Fussing and yanking, gently but with purpose, just like he'd done while dressing his son any number of times before. It was only when the man was satisfied that he shoved the gun firmly into the holster. Blunt fingers smoothing the snaps into place before stepping back - signalling for the pilot to start the engine.

The hand that fell on his shoulder was anything but grounding as the helicopter blades began to spin. It weighed. Pulling at him in ways he didn't have the reserves to fall back on. It felt like lead weights to the soul. Like the last breath before drowning.

"We did our job. Now you do yours. Solve this thing."

* * *

He wondered if that was supposed to make him feel better or worse.

* * *

 He managed a slow walk until the building came into view.

That's when he started running.

His backpack shifted, slamming awkwardly, half empty between his shoulder blades as panic welled inexplicably in his breast. Sending lancing tendrils of fear and hope coursing through his blood stream as safety loomed in the form of streamlined curves and yards of pristine, bullet-proof glass.

The three of them met him at the gate. Breaking protocol, exposing themselves, but he couldn't find it in him to care a wit, to be anything other than grateful, relieved as he watched smiles stretch themselves across familiar faces.

It was enough to make him forget about his bloody clothes – stiff and reeking with filth and sweat – enough to make him forget about the hurt and the loss, about how he hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, how he could still hear Stefan's whimpering cries, the rattling snarl as Claire had stumbled out of the boutique, her favourite cream-colored top a mess of red skid marks as she threw herself through the glass door and out onto the street.

Because they pulled him in regardless, keeping him close – _safe_  – as a symphony of relieved sounds and happy cries echoed into the sunset-still.

For however long it lasted, he was here.

_Home._


	5. Chapter 5

They treated him with kid gloves at first. At least until they realized that a misplaced word or gesture wouldn't break him. Still, they did their best not to pry. Not to overload him with things he was used to handling before lunch on any standard day. It would have been heartwarming if it hadn't been so god damned annoying.

He put up with it for a few days, until he finally snapped and assigned Ruth and Mori a double shift manning the generators downstairs – grunt work that the janitorial staff had been seeing to in his absence. He lost a remarkable amount of sympathy after that. And frankly that was the way he liked it.

He'd considered the matter closed and pitched himself head first into the data they'd managed to collect so far. Peter had just watched him with worried eyes. It became something of a habit as the days passed, losing himself in his work only to find the older man watching him – worried and inexplicably muted – whenever he came up for air.

The ornery man's silence was almost as off-putting as the sound of distant gun-fire and far off explosions.

_Almost._

* * *

He found him in the break room three days later, head bowed, a dead cell phone sitting on the table in front of him. Ruth had said he hadn't reported to his shift. That he'd ignored her intercom calls and her gentle knocks on his assigned quarters. That he hadn't been eating, that there'd been no word from his family – his mother, father and twin sister in over two days. That she didn't know what to do anymore and if he could just go check, check to make sure he was alright. Talk to him, maybe.

He'd given it until after lunch before he decided to seek him out. He made a point not to check up on him through the CTV feeds until he absolutely had to – convinced that they all needed at least a modicum of privacy – time to process and grieve in their own way.

But the learning curve with this infection was beyond steep.

And he needed Mori in on this.

He stood in the doorway for a handful of beats, wondering if he should acknowledge himself or let the man dictate the terms. He buried his hands in his pockets, feeling strangely unsure for the first time since he'd met him. It had been close to five years since he'd had him face to face and sweating in a brown linen suit, starting off by asking him - with the frank sort of boldness unique to uncaffeinated people everywhere - why they should consider him for the position when there were close to twenty equally qualified applicants quietly working themselves up in the waiting room.

Oddly enough, he figured that along with all the other pivotal milestones in his adult life, his first car, job, the day of his wedding, the birth of his son, the man's answer would be one of the things he remembered until the day he died.

Mori was familiar territory. He knew him. He'd hired him, groomed him. Hell, they'd even had the occasional beer together after work. They had common interests, followed the same teams, hated crowds and had a secret love for the brew from a particularly shitty bar – a shanty-style dock-side on the lower east quarter that they'd made a pact not to tell anyone about. It was the kind of kitchen that considered grease to be an essential food group and still wrapped their fish and chips with old newspaper. In other words, heaven on a particularly shitty day.

_But this?_

_This felt out of his depth._

It wasn't until the clock chimed half past that the man stirred, blinking owlishly as the muted afternoon sun filtered through the blinds. He had to force himself not to flinch when dark eyes, worrisomely blank and hollowed suddenly turned to face him.

"They're gone," Mori bit out, eyes haunted, twin pools of grief and regret. "Gone. Everyone-…everything, gone," the man croaked, chair grating across spotless tiles, as he rose unsteadily – all wobbly legs and joints that didn't seem to want to work right. The thin line of his lips twitched as the man stumbled awkwardly, sending the cell phone spinning – clattering off the table with a cringe-worthy shatter.

But Mori barely even twitched. Instead there was confusion written across his young face, a strange sort of childish incomprehension as he swung his head back and forth. The man was pale and sweating, breathing hard as clammy fingers slap-slapped against the side of his chair. Desperate for purchase before something about the man's behavior finally clicked and suddenly he was surging forward.

Running on nothing but stale coffee, adrenaline and no sleep, it was pure instinct that allowed him to recognize the signs and reel him in just before the man's legs gave out underneath him. Top-heavy, they collapsed on the couch – winded as Mori's full weight settled across him - half straddling the other as he pulled the younger man close, coddling and completely unapologetic as the full weight of the last few days seemed to settle on him all at once.

"I know," he murmured, chin drifting through fine brown hair, greedy now as he tucked him into the curve of his shoulder. "I know."

He wasn't sure what it meant when Mori let him, pressing deeper into his hold as strong arms wrapped around his forearms, digging in, seeking the comfort he freely offered, as the younger man shuddered against him.

And ironically, that was when he decided to break.

* * *

He didn't quite understand it.

The way the human mind processed complex emotions, things like grief and survivors guilt.

It was cathartic, he supposed, the gentle weight, the trust, the hands that clutched and held rather than ripped and tore. The human body was primed to seek out companionship, solace, to strengthen familiar bonds in order to form more cohesive pack structures. It was a survival mechanism. Something they –  _he_  – should have been far above given the current state of human evolution and yet-

He tried his best to hold them back when a sheen of angry tears blurred across his vision. He tipped his head, blinking fast, staring up at the ceiling as Mori shook with silent sobs. Trying his best to hold his ground in a losing battle he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to surrender to.

All he knew was that when he cried into the man's hair, breathing in the impossibly base and honest scent of him - surrounded in sterile whites and stainless steel appliances as the warmth of the other man seeped through his jumper - he wondered if anything would ever be okay again.

* * *

They fell asleep like that, unashamed but perhaps a bit self-conscious as they unwound themselves from around each other when they started awake sometime in the night. Over-warm and crusty with the vestiges of salt-track tears and spilled coffee as the blanket that'd been left over them crumpled gently into their laps.

He made an art form out of nearly choking on all the words he couldn't bring himself to say as they went their separate ways - wrung out, yet not unaffected. It made him wonder, later, under the cover of darkness, if the man felt the same sort of emptiness when he settled into his cot – restless and unsatisfied as the hours ticked past and he eventually fell asleep – lulled by the occasional draught of the man's scent, caught in the folds of his tear-stained jumper.


	6. Chapter 6

The day they lost B-wing dawned brilliant and sunny, with Mother Nature thumbing her nose at Wales' penchant for dreary perpetual overcast, to deliver a masterpiece of patch-work clouds and warm rays. He'd been soaking it in, like a big cat basking in a sun-beam when the vial of infected blood Doctor Spellman had been working with, shattered in his hands.

He'd always been proud of his malleability.

That he was prone to bend rather than break.

He was adaptable.

Capable.

Even-keeled.

But even he couldn't say that the loss of over eighty of their own – of his people – his employees didn't rattle him. He'd been forced to compartmentalize. To save those he could by walling off every niggling inch of human emotion that was screaming at him to take the gun he'd taken to wearing – just in case - and save who he could, for however long he could.

He clicked the lock in place himself. Wrapping the thick iron links around and around those stupidly flimsy metal handles like they were the only thing separating them from hell itself. He forced himself to go slow, controlling each and every movement as the sound of distant screams and echoing footfalls rippled down the empty hall.

They were people he'd known. People he'd liked, hired, worked with and trusted.

It was penance, he decided.

He made the decision. Now he had to live with the consequences.

* * *

They walked on egg-shells for the next three days.

He felt bitter and apathetic in turn.

He wasn't sleeping.

Barely eating.

He just stared at the same data over and over again, fingers sinking deep between coarse dark strands as he let his thoughts free-fall, too exhausted to keep them in check. He sighed, head dropping into his hands as sentences from blacked-out military missives and chemical equations rippled through the air above his head - fanning out as he allowed his frustration to get the better of him.

Nothing was connecting.

Nothing made sense.

This wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before.

It was new, frightening, merciless – ground-breaking.

It was natural in design, not man-made; none of the markers were there to indicate otherwise. When it had spread – making its way city to city, port to port - the media had reported it as a rare strain of rabies. The irony was they weren't completely wrong. There were similarities. But then the structure of the virus itself was all wrong. It was like someone had re-written the book on viral infections and not told anyone about it.

It all came down to the fact that the infection didn't work the way a virus was supposed to. The exposure to infected rate was too fast, almost unbelievable if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. Under the microscope it was even more complex. It was beautiful in the same way as it was horrific. It was a hodgepodge of the new and the old, the exciting and the frightening, and none of them had the first clue what to do about it.

Still, every virus, every contagion had a weak spot.

A chink in its armor.

A weakness they could inevitably exploit.

They just had to find it.

The question of whether it would be too late by the time they did, remained unanswered.

* * *

That was about as far as they'd gotten when two lone figures stumbled off the lawn and into the parking lot. He and Mori had watched from his office window as they wove between parked cars and fox-holes - supporting each other – before the man collapsed against the curb. Leaving the woman to limp towards the front gate – shell-shocked and hollowed eyed.

His breath caught in his throat as he watched the man's hands spider out, sinking into the cracks in the concrete, as if by sheer will he could pull himself the rest of the way. The woman was staring into the camera like she could see right through it, dark eyes pleading – desperate as she lifted her hand to the control panel and-

The sound of the buzzer ringing through the empty halls sounded almost as foreign as the  _clink-clink_  of his key ring as he took the stairs at a loping sprint, skipping steps as the sound echoed and the undead in the wing next to them grew restless.

* * *

"You're not serious."

He hadn't thought twice about volunteering to help Gerry and Segen find their way to cold-storage – Vault 139 – a place he avoided like, no pun intended, the plague on his best day. It was his duty after all, his responsibility.

"B-wing's a maze; they'll never make it back alone."

It would be fitting even, he'd thought. Feeling strangely detached as he strapped the makeshift protectors over his forearm, barely aware of the way Ruth had moved in close, still talking.

"We don't even know if his theory is correct," she insisted, worried, polished and erudite to a fault as the clean scent of her washed over him. If their positions were reversed, he knew he would probably be doing the same thing – only insisting he go in her place, that she was too valuable. Only there must have been something on his face that forced her to curb the rest of it, because she bit her tongue, sullen and sincere as he smoothed a length of duct tape under his fingers.

"All I know is I'm not asking one of you to take him there," he returned, obsequious - objective as he hefted the crowbar experimentally. Making sure the pads didn't hinder his range of movement.

_After all what was one more death?_

At least his would mean something.

* * *

He wasn't sure what it said about him when he realized – feet pounding down the sky bridge, running faster than he had in Rome, faster than he could ever remember moving in his entire god damned life – that he'd never been so sure he wanted to live than he did in that precise moment.

Living wasn't just a habit.

_He wanted it._

Somewhere along the line he figured he must have forgotten what that felt like.

* * *

He wasn't sure who moved first when Gerry started to make his way back from the vault. If Mori turned to him or if he reached forward and pulled him in. It didn't matter. The embrace was effortless. It was real and honest. It was joy, relief, triumph and a hundred other emotions he didn't have it in him to voice.

It was humanity dusting off the ashes.

It was renewal.

A second chance.

But most of all, it was the knowledge that he never wanted to let go.

* * *

He'd always considered sexuality to be a fluid concept rather than a fixed point.

So when he woke up one morning a few months after they'd started air-dropping the vaccine and found Mori on his front step – looking like he'd spent the better part of the night pacing back and forth in his flat across town – he didn't think twice about it when the man took a stuttering breath, crowded him into the door jamb and kissed him deeply.

It was all too-dry lips, no tongue and desperation.

But it was the kind of kiss that evolved over time. That improved and layered as both parties took the time to learn the other. It was strong hands smoothing down his temple, blunt fingertips scratching across its scalp. It was open mouths and spit-slick lips. It was good, grounding and wholesome in every way he'd forgotten true intimacy could be.

The man kissed like this was the last thing he was ever going to do and he wanted to do it right – passionately, fully and with no regrets. And after a moment of stunned incomprehension, he found himself kissing back. Gentle at first then bolder, fiercer than he could ever remember being with another person.

He held nothing back as they slammed against the wall, making an incomprehensible sound deep in his throat when thin cotton boxers slid sinfully easy across three day old jeans. He caught sight of them in the glass panes of the heavy oak door, a tangling mess of sleep-puffed hair, jerking hips and comparable shoulder widths that tried their best to overwhelm, but ended up complimenting each other instead.

Arousal spiked, heavy and building in the pit of his belly as Mori puffed into the curve of his neck, nipping and rasping – stubble to stubble – as he muffled a curse into his skin.

"Jesus, Pierre, I-"

He swallowed the rest of the words before they had chance to form. Focusing instead on the feeling, the moment, on accepting everything the man had to give - was  _willing_  to give – before settling in to see about taking the rest. He hiked the younger man up against him, sending framed photos - he and Claire in France, their second honeymoon, Claire posing, smiling, her long blonde hair billowing out behind her in the seaside breeze – clattering across the hardwood as a sweaty palm wrenched down his shorts and-

Like the new world taking shape around them, he figured that if anything, at least it was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference: The title is taken from an Italian proverb that basically translates into: "Desperate times call for desperate measures."


End file.
